when one Sunday, at dinner, the cook came in to say there
was "a drover-chap outside wanted the boss to come and have a look at
a horse." M'Gregor simmered a while, and muttered something about the
"Sawbath day"; but at last he went out, and we filed after him to see
the fun.

The drover stood by the side of his horse, beneath the acacia trees
in the yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result
of collision with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed
poverty-stricken enough to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down on
his luck. Had it not been for that indefinable self-reliant look which
drovers--the Ishmaels of the bush--always acquire, one might have taken
him for a swagman. His horse was in much the same plight. It was a
ragged, unkempt pony, pitifully poor and very footsore, at first sight,
an absolute "moke"; but a second glance showed colossal round ribs,
square hips, and a great length of rein, the rest hidden beneath a
wealth of loose hair. He looked like "a good journey horse", possibly
something better.

We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover. The man was
monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are. It is only
the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech.

"Guid mornin'," said M'Gregor.

"Mornin', boss," said the drover, shortly.

"Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?"

"Yes."

"Ay," and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike
don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs,
and opened the passive creature's mouth. "H'm," he said. Then he turned
to the drover. "Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. Ye're thin like. What's been
the matter?"

"Been sick with fever--Queensland fever. Just come through from the
North. Been out on the Diamantina last."

"Ay. I was there mysel'," said M'Gregor. "Hae ye the fever on ye still?"

"Yes--goin' home to get rid of it."

A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he
can carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his
strength and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate,
the malady moves with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at
regular intervals to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually
it wears itself out, often wearing its patient out at the same time.
M'Gregor had been through the experience, and there was a slight change
in his voice as he went on with his palaver.

"Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?"